Parachute
by Lame-O v2.0
Summary: Baby, if I've got you I don't need a parachute. You're gonna catch me if I fall. Rummy/Lorielle


**I'm currently experiencing nostalgia, ie; playing Ephemeral Fantasia on my ps2 from the beginning. I almost forgot how long the game is, lol. This little bit popped into my head and I just thought it was worth sharing. Also trying to get back into writing again after a several month hiatus, haha.**

**Loosely based off of Ingrid Michealson's song 'Parachute'. It's femmslash, so if that bothers you...I suggest hitting the back button. Also has implications of rape. Touchy stuff, so sensitive viewers beware? Idk. XD**

**I don't own EF or it's characters (damn...) and I also don't own Ingrid Michealson (damn also).**

**But most of all, enjoy.**

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><p>"You're late"<p>

I said, not even bothering to look from my vanity mirror. She didn't give an explanation, just walks over to where I was sitting and takes the brush that was in my hand. She begins to brush my hair. It's a rather comforting feeling; after each long stroke she runs her other hand over my hair to smooth it over. I close my eyes for a moment to commit the feeling to memory.

She puts the brush down on the vanity, the vanity given to the Pandule Royal Family so long ago. Or was it? It's difficult to tell exactly when things really occurred. I do my best to try and remember the days from before _that_ _man_ closed the island off from time. _Wasn't General Bagoth's birthday soon? How old will he be? Does it even matter?_ I shut my eyes tighter trying to come to some sort of conclusion to this dilemma that would help to remind myself that real life, in all its uncertainty and spontaneous splendor, can resume once more. But it's hard sometimes.

She knows this.

She puts a hand comfortingly on my shoulder. I open my eyes and glance over at it. Her hand is soft, regal even. Like Mother's fine satin curtains that used to drape the large window in the dining hall, the one that overlooks the demon reactor, on the top floor. Guests would always comment on how perfect it fit the unique tribal etchings drawn on the pane. I abhor that window.

But like all fabric, from the lowest quality polyester to the finest silk, it begins to wear thin.

Her hands are worn from battle, and a couple of scars mar her knuckles. They grip my shoulder more tightly than they used to; constantly drinking glasses of wine in anger will do that to a person, I suppose.

It upsets me to know that _he_ drove her to this.

I stand up and turn to face her. Her green eyes are filled with a combination of despondency, fear, and lust. I reach behind her head and she tilts it upward as I release her bright auburn hair from its binding. It's longer than mine, even. I like how it frames her figure when it's loose; it takes away a sense of severity she has.

I start to remove her armor, and she remains still like always. Those clunky shoulder pads mask the actual brittleness of her bones. I bend down to take away the shields along her thighs, and place them delicately on the floor. Finally, I try and remove the rest of her uniform; it's all held together by an assortment of straps that twist and turn around her body, making for easy mobility.

She likes to take off her boots herself. She says it reminds her of what she would first do, after a long day of being on patrol, when she returned to her home. There's security in routine. I just assumed she liked the feel of leather.

I smile thinking about this, and she notices. Her naked form embraces my still clothed one, and I know I want to remain in her arms forever – even after time loops once more.

"I'm sorry I was late."

She whispers in to my ear, sending shivers down my spine while simultaneously inducing a warming sensation elsewhere. I bury my face in the crook of her neck and take in her scent.

She smells just the way she always has: Gemini flowers and the open sea.

I let my lips graze her neck; her skin tastes salty, almost like a delicacy to the ancient natives who used to inhabit this island. A soft whimper escapes her, and it takes every effort to restrain myself from ravishing her right here – standing in the center of my bedroom.

As is custom, she removes my garments with ease then folds them. She places them on the vanity, and pauses. She looks at me again with a questioning glance. I nod and she proceeds to remove my crown – a useless trinket at this point – and places it atop my folded clothes.

She is nothing like _him_.

She is gentle, and always looks to me for finality in her advances. She doesn't simply take; she gives to the point where her own health is compromised, sometimes almost beyond healing. It's no wonder Mouse and the others adore her.

I feel guilty.

I can't relate to anyone, not anymore. I come off as icy as the snow that never blankets the island. I am the only winter that Pandule has ever known. I know this, and am ashamed.

She caresses my face. It's as if she senses the unease through my eyes, no matter how hollow others claim they may be.

I follow as she leads me to my canopy bed.

Firm legs become entangled in defeated ones, and she lowers herself slowly on top of me. Her body fits perfectly with mine; shaking arms find their around her body to hold on for fear of slipping. Fear of falling.

I've always been rather frightened by the heights of my emotions.

I try and say something, anything, but no words come to reach. I close my eyes and let her hands roam my body. I can feel them tracing every curve, every contour, and it feels exquisite. This is what I think of when I feel like I can no longer bear being with _him_. It makes things easier.

She brushes stray azure locks from my forehead, and then leans in to kiss me. For her, I let it happen.

She glides her hand across my inner thigh, but falters. When she looks up at me, I see worried hesitation. And while we don't usually converse during these encounters, she tenderly asks me something.

"Does he force you?"

The question lingers as I turn my head away, I couldn't bear to see the expression that probably graced her normally elegant features. It's foolish really – turning your head to the side won't conceal the response when your lover is less than 2 inches away. I knew this and attempted anyway.

Her hand.

One that heals instead of hurts. A hand that is there to lift you when you stumble, to catch you when you fall. Her hand wipes the tears away, and she gently coos soothing words to allay even the most unimaginable traumas. Words that are more powerful than any amount of time magic.

"Shh…It's alright, my Princess. It's alright…I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere, Lorielle."

She holds me while I cry, shelters me from the torrential downpour of tears. Some may be surprised to know that this ice princess does carry feeling.

But not her.

She understands. Rummy understands that this is not how I used to be. That my life – all of our lives – has been twisted and ruptured into caricatures of who _he_ perceives us to be, made to act according to _his_ will.

_He_ is but a dilettante playwright, however. _He_ has yet to capture the true beauty of human nature – the ebb and flow of emotion that everyone possesses. And _he_ never will, because we must rely on ourselves to be our own playwrights.

I rely too much on Rummy.

"Please…" I manage to beg between sobs, "Make the pain go away…"

She kisses me with more intensity this time, our tongues engaging in a dance not unlike the ones that occur in the town square during the latter part of the festivities. As her hand trails back down past my navel, I start to think:

While I do not belong to anyone, I certainly do belong here.

Lying in her arms.


End file.
